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the disappearing mist: tarabya

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Perhaps it’s the proximity to the Black Sea. One last stretch of strait and you are somewhere else entirely, behind another curtain. Some mornings you emerge from your house to a disappeared world. What was there the previous morning has vanished. Objects become outlines. The vaguest sketch of reality. It’s kind of magic, almost as if you could trip off the sidewalk and fall into an infinite nothingness.

triptych 2